Doctors and Common Sense

Posted on January 13, 2013 by

Over Christmas our little boy was ill. Nothing makes you feel further away from home than being in a foreign country with a poorly child. As if our first Christmas outside the UK wasn’t making us homesick enough!

In the end it was nothing serious, just the vomiting bug that all the cool kids seem to be catching this winter, but it was the worst we’ve seen him. The highlight was probably boxing day: scooping out half digested chunks of egg from down the back of the sofa after he’d decided that egg wasn’t what the doctor ordered and threw it up all over me, my new Christmas jumper and the sofa. Pleasant it was not.

For the first couple of days we were full of that confidence that’s so rare being a parent: we know what we’re doing, and what we’re doing is right. But you start to lose that confidence after days of him not keeping anything down and one particularly exhausting night where he was awake every two hours to be sick or at least retch like his intestines were in the wrong place and only a damned good hurl was going to get them to where they needed to be. So by day five, shattered and worried: Something Had To Be Done.

So we phoned our paediatrician. Of course, this being Christmas, he was at home with his family and had no interest in hearing about sick people. Unlike in the UK, the entire doctor’s surgery was in fact on holiday. The only clue as to how to progress was a hastily recorded answer phone message that I imagine was left by the last person to leave the office for the day after a large, Italian lunch when it suddenly occurred to them that people might get sick sometime over the next two weeks. As always with these messages, they’re recorded by somebody standing in vaguely the same room as the answer phone, but not speaking into it, as that would clearly make understanding their machine gun fast language far too easy for foreigners.

After listening to the message about sixteen times, I’d managed to capture a phone number which, as far as I could gather, was the number of a doctor who was available for the duration. I phoned the number and left a message, as best I could, to explain that we had a poorly baby and could use some help.

In the interim, my wife had had the brilliant idea to put a UK sim back into our mobile phone and call NHS direct. Genius! So I did. Thank God for the UK and people working over Christmas, in a call centre of all Godforsaken places. The person I spoke to was very helpful – reassured me that we were doing everything right, keep on providing food and water (which was good to know, I was seriously considering starving him until the vomiting stopped) and someone would phone back within four hours.

The nurse did phone back and the first question was a little tough to answer: “and whereabouts in the UK are you at the minute?” Er, now – do I lie, knowing you’ve just listened to an international dial tone? Or do I tell the truth? I’m English, I went with telling the truth.

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not legally allowed to offer help to people outside the UK.” She sounded like a nice sort, so I laid on the emotional blackmail thick. “I’m really sorry, sir, let me check with someone senior.” Aah, the “line manager” trick every call centre uses. “I’m very sorry, we’re only licensed to practice medicine within the UK so we can’t help you.”

I mean – seriously? What the actual and literal fuck. I know you can’t tell me about local pharmacies or other local health care opportunities. I don’t want that – I just want the reassuring words of a health care professional that we’re doing the right thing and our little boy will be fine in a couple of days. But, no, a phone service can only be accessed by people physically present in the UK.

They weren’t to know we weren’t here on holiday (that was our story), and didn’t speak enough language to get local health care (not far from the truth). For people that are abroad on holiday and have a sickly child, this must be horrifying and incredibly frightening. Her best advice was, “talk to your tour rep.” Really? And if you’re not travelling with a pack of chavs? I think this is outrageous – if you’re somewhere else in the EU, even if you’re a UK citizen on holiday: tough! Try A&E. Having been to Italian A&E, they also don’t speak any English.

Plan B: we phoned our old doctor in the UK. The saint that he is, he phoned back: “well you’re no longer our patient so I’m under no obligation to help.” No, we understand that, thank you very much for being a human being and phoning us back, though.

“And I can’t follow up so this isn’t really qualified medical advice.” That’s perfect, I’m happy for you to talk to me as a parent, as a human being. I’m not going to sue you if your advice turns out to be wrong.

He made the reassuring, cooing noises we needed to hear. Confirmed that we were doing the right thing: keep feeding, including milk, keep well hydrated, he’s too young for rehydration salts, stick with it, he’ll be fine in a couple of days. Thanks. We knew all of that – but it’s nice to have it confirmed by someone that ought to know. Phew.

Lo and behold, two days later, our little lad was back to his usual, noisy, chaos causing self. Since then he’s started walking full time, so we’re unbelievably shattered, but incredibly relieved that he’s back to being a total and utter, unbelievably tiring, pain in the arse bundle of joy.

For me the whole exercise has been enlightening. You get used to people applying common sense in Italy. Rules are there as a guidance, but people basically behave like human beings. Whereas in the UK rules is rules, and people basically behave like machines. It made us realise how much we miss family, and how hard it is being away from family at Christmas. But it also made us realise just how much living in the UK is a cold, mechanical, soulless experience.

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Summer is Over

Posted on September 28, 2012 by

So summer is officially over in Italy. 21st September has passed. That’s it: summer is finished!

How do I know? Well, besides the calendar – which I didn’t know was a reliable way of identifying seasons, until moving here. But then last weekend we finally got round to clearing the house up. Now the temperature is down to manageable levels, it’s a good opportunity to consign the fans to the garage for winter – we won’t be needing those now! Rather entertainingly, while I was in the garage, our next door neighbour came down… to consign his fans to the garage for the winter. For some reason, it pleases me that we’re already in sync with the Italians when it comes to deciding that summer is over.

Unlike in England, where warm, wet weather gives way to less warm, still wet weather – where a change of season is a fairly arbitrary distinction in an otherwise endless progression of rain and disappointment. In Italy: the seasons are well marked. The temperature has dropped. It even rains sometimes. The trees are becoming all autumnal: yup, summer is definitely over.

Today we went over to Cervia, on the Adriatic coast. Although when we arrived it looked like rain, by lunchtime the sun was out and the temperature pleasantly into the mid 20s. All in all, if this was England – it would most definitely be summer. The beaches would be full of people turning slowly burnt. Plus journos taking pictures ready for tomorrow’s headlines of “Cor! What a scorcher!” or “Hottest day since records began!” But, in Italy, this is autumn, you weirdo on the beach.

The beaches (which look lovely, by the way), were empty. Save for two overweight, elderly Italian men braving the water – we had the beach to ourselves. I think this was the first time Alex had seen the sea, he loved it. So did his shoes, trousers, my shirt, the car. Basically everything he came into contact with!

Ok so, when it’s been nearly 40 a month earlier, I can understand Italians not rushing to the coast to shiver in temperatures 15 degrees lower. But what really amazed me is how unbelievably quiet the town was. Not just Brighton-out-of-season-quiet. But nuclear-holocaust-has-nobody-told-you-quiet. Seriously.

Most of the hotels we passed were closed. Actually closed, shuttered and front gates padlocked. I honestly cannot remember ever seeing a hotel closed in England. Even in winter. Even if it’s quiet. Some nutball will decide that 7 degrees and raining is perfect holiday weather. But in Italy? No. Summer is for holidays. Autumn is for rain. Beaches are for summer. Hotels near beaches are for summer. Rain is for England.

There are definitely seasons here. The temperature drops 10 degrees, literally overnight – on cue according to the calendar. But what puzzles me – what about the people that live in these towns? It’s one thing to live in a seaside town in the UK and accept that for 11 months of the year it will be a howling gale and driving rain. But the seaside towns in the UK are designed to cope with crap weather. I mean, by definition, seaside towns in the UK are there to relish in crap weather.

But in Italy, seaside towns are for use in summer. The rest of the year? Well, if you’re here, you’re clearly some kind of weirdo. Or English.

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Kiddy Fodder

Posted on August 23, 2012 by

We moved to Italy just before my son turned six months old. Since we planned to follow Baby Led Weaning we didn’t start until we’d arrived in Italy. So his first experiences of solid food were while we lived in the hotel that was our home for the first two months. Green beans were an early favourite. As were broccoli until they went out of season.

As we started exploring Italy and going out to restaurants, Alex naturally came along, too. So we’d order him half portions of something finger friendly – filled pasta, mozzarella, grilled vegetables. Generally restaurants were more than happy to adapt something from the main menu so he could eat it with his fingers. He’d be eating good, wholesome, nutritious, Italian food along with us, everywhere we went. He absolutely loves it – he’ll wolf down tortelloni like they’re going out of fashion!

We recently went back to the UK to visit family. Along the way we passed through France and Switzerland, so have had a random sampling of European food. Suddenly we found ourselves in restaurants with children’s menus; this was something of a novelty, so we ordered him some kiddy fodder. At a hotel in Calais we ordered chicken nuggets and green beans (again). He absolutely loved it. Win.

On the way back, we stopped in Laon and ordered him a burger patty and a few chips from the kiddy menu. The burger mostly ended up on the floor. The chips all ended up on the floor. That night, we stayed at a hotel near Nancy. The adult food was excellent. But once again, we ordered kiddy fodder for Alex. Chicken nuggets again, this time with what was described as buttered tagliatelle. He likes chicken nuggets, he likes pasta – what could be better? Well, proper food to start with. Frozen chicken nuggets and dry, undressed pasta – well, I wouldn’t eat that shit? Why would he want to? So, predictably, he threw a fit and most of the food on the floor. Talk about a difficult dinner in a nice restaurant when you’re fighting your one year old.

The following day, we stopped at a service station in Switzerland and got him some of what we were having – grilled pork, saute potatoes and grilled vegetables. He absolutely lapped it up. And who can blame him? Proper adult food again.

And then we realised – the trouble with kiddy fodder, is it’s actually crap. We’ve never come into contact with it in Italy – kids menus don’t even seem to be a thing in the restaurants we go to. So Alex gets small portions (or increasingly not-so-small-portions!) of whatever we’re having; or something else suitable from the adult menu. No chicken nuggets. No chips. No bland, brown food.

How on earth do kids tolerate this crap? We’re shoveling bland, uniformly brown food into our children, no wonder they grow up with eating disorders and food issues. You’d have issues if all you saw was brown food that tastes of cardboard. No wonder kids don’t eat vegetables – they’re not brown!

While back in the UK, my Mum prepared some beetroot. Now, I hate beetroot. Call it a childhood with a glut of beetroots. There’s only so many beetroot curries and beetroot pies and beetroot gratins and sliced beetroot with pickled beetroot in beetroot sauce with beetroot juice and beetroot crumble before, frankly, I’d rather shove the beetroot up my arse.

Anyway, beetroot. My Mum had a recipe for beetroot that apparently was rather nice (it was lovely). We weren’t planning to give Alex any - ever tried eating a bowl of beetroots with your hands, while wiping your hands in your hair, eyes, clothes, parents? Precisely. But without thinking we put the big bowl of beetroot right in front of him. His eyes lit up! It quickly became clear he was getting some, he was desperate to try it: OMG red food OMG OMG its so red!! Gimme gimme gimme!

I couldn’t spoon it on fast enough! As fast as I spooned it on he crammed it in his pie hole. He absolutely loved it. I’ve never known him eat food so fast! And now he absolutely loves colourful food. In a pub not long after he didn’t really want to eat his own rather brown food, he wanted my brightly coloured food (plus of course, food off Daddy’s plate always tastes better!)

Will Alex grow out of this love for proper, wholesome, non-processed food? I bloody well hope not. Baby led weaning is giving him a great start with food, letting him try food he wants and he’s trying so much different food – even things we’d think he wouldn’t like (chorizo, really? Really?) I genuinely pity the poor kids that have issues with food. The kids that turn their noses up at everything that’s not familiar and brown. The kids that refuse any vegetable. Instead, Alex turns his nose up at the kiddy fodder. Good on you, son!

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Technical issues

Posted on July 28, 2012 by

There are many things to love about living in Italy: the great weather, the great food, the great people. But there comes a time, no matter where you live, where you have to phone Technical Support.

Don’t get me wrong, I hate phoning tech support in England. In English. But the prospect of having to do it in Italian filled me with dread: trying to explain to some PFY that no, despite the fact I don’t speak very good Italian, I’m not a moron but my Internet is down and its Your Fault.

Our Internet has mostly been pretty good. We’ve had the odd few drop outs. But then last week it went down and stayed down for 24 hours. The only thing that seemed to resurrect it, weirdly, was picking the phone up to get a dial tone (don’t ask me why, I hate technology).

So I bit the bullet and phoned Telecom Italia. After having first navigated the automated phone menu (not as easy as it sounds with limited Italian), I managed to get through to a real live human being. I explained the problem. He seemed to understand. And then, as always happens, the tech support guy realises that if he can fob you off he can get off the call quickly and not have to do any Real Work.

Ah, you connect via wireless, we don’t do PC support

Nice try. But I’m too wily to fall for your tricks. Somehow, I managed to explain that the problem was with the modem, not my PC. But I still couldn’t make him understand that the ADSL light was blinking. Eventually, he relented and switched to English to explain that the ADSL light was important – I explained: yes, it’s switching on and off. Blinking.

Aaaah, I understand. An engineer will look at it within 2 days.

Now, when I hear this in the UK, I know it’s a lie. At some point in the next week another PFY will see my ticket, ignore it, assume I’m some kind of internet moron and close it “User Too Clueless To Use Internet”. But in Italy? I had very little hope and was trying to figure out which of my colleagues I could persuade to deal with Telecom Italia on my behalf.

Then, unbelievable surprise: that evening I get a call from Telecom Italia asking if the problem is fixed. Unfortunately, we’d gone to an outdoor concert to get rained on (in Italy, go figure!) so couldn’t know either way. I explained to them we’d be back the following day so could they call back then.

So the following morning we return, to find a working Internets. Telecom Italia, good to their word, phone back – on a Sunday - to confirm all is working. With great pleasure I tell them that yes, the internet is working fine again. Then on Monday I get another call to once again confirm that yes, it really is still working.

Bloody hell. Has Italy discovered customer service? This is brilliant. Having been beaten into submission by years of abuse at the hands of UK ISPs, this excellent service has me utterly blown away.

And then today, once again, the internet is down and staying down. Not even picking up the phone seems to cure it (except, when I started writing this, it came up – whether it will stay up long enough for me to finish and post is another matter entirely).

So once again I do battle with Telecom Italia. This time though I get someone that obviously doesn’t much care for foreigners. Doesn’t really want to go to any effort to try and decipher my crap Italian. Despite me trying to explain that the light is “winking”, she keeps asking me: what are you trying to say? What, on this good earth, do you think I might be saying? Am I suggesting that the ADSL light is making a sexually suggestive gesture from across a crowded room? No. Am I suggesting that the ADSL light somehow secretly understands my inner thoughts and wishes to convey this without letting onto everyone else in the room? On balance, probably not. Perhaps the light is FLASHING. And no, not in a “expose your genitals” kind of way (yes, I’m, looking at you wordreference.com).

Eventually, I manage to make her understand that the light is neither constantly on nor constantly off but in the only possible third state that this light is capable of: an oscillation between said two states in a steady and repetitive manner indicative of a difficulty achieving some desired outcome.

Engineer will deal with you in two days. Thank you. Goodbye.

Well, we shall see. In England, I’d get all ranty about how they told me that last time and it’s once again gone down like a cheap whore. But given that trying to explain flashing lights is leading me into all sorts of sexually suggestive dead-ends, I think that might be pushing my Italian way beyond it’s limits.

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Homesick

Posted on June 4, 2012 by

Christ, I can’t believe it’s four months since my last post. Things have been busy here in Italy. We’ve moved into our new house, unpacked and we’ve bought a car. But more of all that another time.

Yesterday we had some friends over to enjoy the glorious weather. We sat around in the sun, had a BBQ then had a lark about in the pool. All in all, a very pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon. While sitting in the pool, a friend of mine from the UK who was visiting asked:

Regretting leaving London behind?

God, no! On a day like that? Nice weather, nice food, nice company, nice beer, nice pool. Regretting leaving London behind? Don’t make me laugh.

And then today for no apparent reason I felt terribly homesick. I think it was changing the calendar over at work that did it. This month’s picture is my wife & I with our son, sitting in our back garden in England – last autumn. Suddenly I find that I miss that little house. I miss the little garden. I miss autumn. I miss the glorious autumn colours in that garden. I miss the terrible mass of leaves that took ages to sweep up.

I miss those crisp, foggy English mornings. I miss the glorious, unexpected days of winter sunshine. I miss winter. I miss it starting to get dark by 3pm. I miss coming home and lighting a fire, not just because it’s cold but because it’s the only thing approximating sunlight I’ll see that day.

But then, I also miss getting up before my wife & son to go to work. I miss coming home after he’s gone to bed. I also miss spending 3 hours a day on public transport. Assuming it works. I also miss bitching about the useless excuse for a transport system on twitter. I miss the dismal, grey days. I miss the cloud being so low it feels like you’re inside even when you’re outside. I also miss drizzle. What a pointless excuse for weather – not wet enough to be rain, not dry enough to leave the umbrella at home. I also miss the wind. Typical isn’t it, only ever rains when it’s so windy you can’t use your umbrella. Horizontal rain. I miss horizontal rain. I miss having so much weather. I miss rain, sleet, snow, sunshine & drizzle all before breakfast.

If I went back to my old life – I’d miss my 20 minute commute to work. Christ, I’m gonna try cycling in tomorrow. I’d miss being close enough to work to cycle. And living in a country where I’m not guaranteed to get rained on every damned day – especially in June, especially on a bank holiday weekend and especially when the Queen is having a big shindig.

I’d miss our ridiculous outsized garden. I’d miss our gorgeous pool. I’d miss being able to eat outside all the time. I’d miss the wonderful Italian countryside. I’d miss the delicious Italian food. I’d have to import a lot of the delicious Italian wine. I’d miss the amazing people we’ve met out here. I’d even miss the crazy Italian driving. Hmm, ok maybe not that last one.

But you know what I do miss? I miss my family and friends.

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Snow

Posted on February 3, 2012 by

So turns out it snows in Italy. Who knew? Why wasn’t I told? Pretty sure that wasn’t in the job description when we moved out here.

Slip sliding around

The first day of snow was pretty cool. I mean, driving home with 1cm of snow, everything looked pretty awesome. But just as in the UK, everyone drives like a total retard on their inappropriate summer tyres: so a 10 minute journey took 30 minutes.

My car is in there somewhere

My wife was convinced our hire car had summer tyres on. I wasn’t sure. I mean, I hadn’t totally fallen off the road, so the grip can’t have been that bad. The following morning however, the normal 1cm-of-snow-that-brings-the-whole-of-the-UK-to-a-standstill was superseded by 30+ cm of snow. Ok, that’s a lot of snow.

The last time I remember that much snow in the UK was back in that mythical childhood everyone seems to have where it snowed shit loads every year, but that nobody older seems to remember.

Still, I struggled manfully into work. Well, once I’d spent 20 minutes extracting the car from the mountain of snow it was covered in. And waited another 15 minutes for the retard parked next to me to get out of my way. He’d managed to move 6 feet, but only succeeded in blocking me in and blocking the path of the snow plough that was trying to clear a path for us. Eventually he did the decent thing and went the other way to park in a snow drift.

By now the snow plough had cleared a path in front of me. All I had to do was move 2 feet and the front wheels would be on glorious, black tarmac. Two feet? In these conditions? With those tyres? No chance. In the end, after much wheel spinning and swearing I grabbed the wife. She drove, I pushed. Two feet achieved. I could now sail into work. Well, I say sail. More like tread gingerly as the car slides around like a mad thing. At the roundabout near work I manage to understeer into a big mound of snow and bounce gracefully off, back onto my intended direction. Sweet. Snow is awesome.

I talk to my boss about my adventures who persuades me that the hire car must have winter tyres on. Now I’m no expert in these things – having lived in the UK for 30 years where you only need winter tyres once a decade – but they look like summer tyres, they drive like summer tyres.

Snow chains

“When did you join? Mid-November? It’s the law from mid-November for all cars to have winter tyres fitted or to carry snow chains”. My boss helpfully suggests we go check my car to set my mind at rest that it does have winter tyres on.

Oh. Shit. They’re definitely summer tyres. They obviously picked up the car just before winter tyres were required. You’d better fit some chains.

Well, that’s just peachy, isn’t it? How did I manage not to go sailing off the road? Thankfully a kind hearted Italian in my office agrees to come help me fit the snow chains. And glad I was, too – having never had to battle snow chains before there was no chance of me doing it successfully without help from someone that knows what on earth they’re doing. Just trying to get the things untangled and turned the right way round was like trying to untangle that mess of electrical cable behind your TV. You know the one, that snake pit of cables that bites you every time you try and decipher its insane complexity. Now imagine the same but with gloves on. Gloves only serving to keep your freezing fingers wet at the same time.

The journey home? Wonderful. It’s amazing the difference it makes when you turn the steering wheel and something happens. Other than just a scrubbing noise as you understeer off into the nearest snow bank.

The melt

And then today happens… the sun comes out, the temperature rises, the ploughs get to work and the snow starts to clear. But only on the main roads, of course. The side roads are still the same ice-rink they were before. So I find myself driving an unfamiliar route to see my wife in hospital (which is another story to be told another time). After clattering down a decidedly unsnowy road for 5 ks I stop and take the chains off.

Feck it!

At this point, sat nav decides to get creative and direct me into the middle of nowhere. Turns out they still have snow in the middle of nowhere. Quite a lot of snow, in fact. While I’m busy being annoyed at being lost and miles from my wife who needs me, I forget for a brief moment that driving on snow with summer tyres can only end one way. And so it does… as a tiny little bend in the road appears I turn the steering wheel the front wheels turn, laugh, and then carry on ploughing a path for the ditch. And so it is I find myself in the middle of nowhere, in a country I don’t speak the language, with a wife in hospital and my car in a ditch. FML.

Luckily, not 100 yards up the road I’d passed a tractor pulling a minibus out of the ditch on the opposite side of the road. “Hahahahahah” I’d thought as I drove past.

Scusa mi, signore! Anche la mia macchina…

I say as I now have to beg for help. Luckily the guy also speaks some English, which helps, and saves me murdering the Italian language anymore. But nothing like as much as him and his buddy’s rapid extraction of my car from the ditch helps my mission can continue.

Conclusion

So, it turns out it snows in Italy. Who knew? Turns out it’s also rather difficult driving a car with summer tyres on snow. Again, why was I not informed? It turns out snow chains are fucking awesome. But snow chains when the snow is melting are a pain in the ass.

Must. Buy. Winter. Tyres.

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Italian Plug Sockets

Posted on January 15, 2012 by

All I wanted was a God damned cup of tea. How hard can it be to get a God damned cup of tea in a country of coffee drinkers? It is an Englishman’s right, wherever he is in the world, to drink tea. We are only one cup of tea from anarchy, don’t make me break out the anarchy.

Removals

We last left our protagonists waiting an extra day for the removal people. What’s happened since then? The removals arrived, bitched and moaned that it was a two day job. Then proceeded to rush and get it done in under 5 hours.

Yeah, once you get stuck in it gets done pretty quick

How bad a job did they do? Only time will tell. Numerous things were left, including an entire cupboard of stuff in the kitchen. Luckily I caught that before they left. Along with some other, inconspicuous items like a large, shiny metal bin. I mean, it’s easy to miss a great big fucking bin in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Unfortunately, I also missed things. I missed the fact that the lampshades were ours. Ah well, now they’re the next tenants. The doormat was also ours. That, too, is no longer ours. They got most stuff, just annoying when little things get missed.

The Airport

Did I mention already that I fucking hate airports. No, that’s not true. Airports themselves are merely grim. Airport security is a form of torture inflicted on us by a petty and vindictive police state aiming to make travelling so unpleasant that no sane human being would ever subject themselves to it. So instead of flying round the world to blow up sky-scrapers, we should all just stay where we are. That’s damage limitation, for you.

So naturally airport security with a five month old baby, six bags and a big push chair was about as unpleasant as tooth surgery without pain relief. While I held the baby I had to explain to the security theatre monkey that we could test the baby formula just as soon as i) they stopped frisking my wife so she could ii) get a bottle out of the changing bag that they iii) had to stop emptying looking for more fluids and give back to us so my wife could iv) empty said baby formula into a bottle to try and maintain some vague semblance of a sterile container and then v) drink the clearly commercially bought and packaged baby formula.

Sorry mate, not trying to be an asshole: but rules is rules

Yes, they are, aren’t they? But why is this ridiculous security theatre necessary? Do I really feel safer flying knowing that there’s no danger of the shoe bomber and the underpants bomber being followed by the baby formula bomber?

Taxis

Taxi to the airport: fine. Taxi in Italy from the airport. Less fine.

No, too much baggage

So what, pray tell, dear taxi driver, would you have me do? Fly with less? It’s a bit late for that! Eventually persuaded the taxi-wally that him and his colleague could split the luggage between them and we could pay for two taxis to get us back to the apartment. Still, there’s EUR 140 I didn’t want.

Plug Sockets

After the trauma of the journey, Friday was spent sorting out some logistics. We then went shopping. We deliberately didn’t travel out with some things we knew we needed. (I know, 9 checked bags, you’d think that’d be enough for a family of three – but apparently not!) And thusly, Friday was spent purchasing those essentials we managed to not pack, obviously not the kitchen sink, that was in a suitcase.

We brought tea bags. We had milk. Now all I needed was a receptacle for the boiling of water. A kettle, if you will. Thankfully, the shopping centre we went to sold said kettles. Cue our valiant heroes returning home with tea in sight.

And then… and then…

This plug doesn’t fit, darling

What are you talking about you crazy bitch. Of course it does. It just… oh yeah. WTF?

Turns out Italy couldn’t be bothered to settle on one standard plug format. It appears we had bought appliances with what are known as “German” plugs. Unfortunately our apartment only has stupid three pin lighting circuit sockets.

Thankfully, I already had an EU -> UK convertor to use my Italian laptop while in the UK. So I plugged the kettle into the EU to UK convertor, in turn plugged into a UK to EU convertor, in turn plugged into the wall. This heath robinson affair looked as dangerous as it sounds. Well, it didn’t blow up and the kettle boiled. Much tea was drunk. There may even have been laughter.

A trip to the supermarket the following day yielded a cheap convertor from the German format to the format of our sockets. Talking to one of the other expats it sounds like there is a whole other format I’m yet to come across. I hear also that the two three pin formats can be cross converted by just bending the pins. Yay. Hacking your mains electricity. Why have a single, universal plug format used on all appliances? Clearly far too simple if you’re Italian.

Italy 0 – 1 David.

Kettle boiled, tea drunk. You’ll have to work harder than that to derail me, Italy.

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